


Find Me, Touch Me, Feel Me

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Bonding, Crossdressing, Drag Night, First Time, Implied Future Mpreg, Knotting, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omega Verse, Stiles in a Dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles thought college would be different, but no, here he is, being chased by a slobbering beast that wants to crunch his bones. And along comes Derek Hale (still as hot as ever) to help Stiles escape... and along the way, change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Me, Touch Me, Feel Me

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic for tw-holidays, then realized it was wandering away from what I wanted to write for the prompt, so I shelved it and finished it later as a separate story! Of course, I don't own the Teen Wolf world or characters but I do love to write about them.

Stiles honestly thought that college was going to be different. Well, except for Scott. Scott was a constant in his life and if Scott hadn’t been Stiles’s freshman roommate, the world would have probably been wrong. Stiles still wasn’t sure exactly what Scott was _doing_ in college, but he seemed to be making it through all right. Better than high school, when Stiles really thought about it. Maybe it was because the place was different. The environment was different.

But _things_ , things seemed to somehow end up the same.

Because if things were _different_ , Stiles wouldn’t be standing in an alleyway, breathing hard after racing away from some creature he couldn’t even identify, and irritable because he’s lost his favorite pair of heels.

No. Wait. Back up.

 _Some_ things are definitely different.

Like drag night. Which Stiles had never ever thought about before, but then there was this gay and lesbian alliance thing and of course Stiles went to the first meeting since Danny was a good guy so these guys had to be too, right? Which led to a whole weird dating thing, and realization thing, which somehow came to a head with drag night and this gown that used to be drop dead gorgeous before the slit ripped past mid-thigh and practically high enough to show his panties, and Stiles’s lipstick was half-chewed off.

And damn it, the lipstick hadn’t even been chewed off by someone _else_.

Which was a pity, really, because there were some good looking guys at that place.

Not that any of them could hold a candle to Danny. Or Derek Hale.

Now that Stiles looks back on it, Derek Hale has to be the best looking guy he’s ever known. Or lusted after. As if he’d ever be so lucky enough to find out that Derek Hale was gay.

Stiles fumbles his phone from his clutch (running in heels and trying not to lose his clutch was definitely not what had been in the plans for the night). He taps at the touch screen, making a face at the lost nail on his index finger, still half-listening for the potential sounds of growling. Seriously, why does it have to be slobbering monsters every damned time?

_Scott!! 911. Pick me up at the corner of Fifth and um… Terrace._

Stiles presses send and tucks the phone away. He leans his head back against the wall, and tries damned hard not to inhale. Garbage. You’d think he would’ve noticed that when he first ducked in the alley but no, at that point he’d just been thinking _don’t get eaten_ and _maybe it didn’t see me_.

“Not a bad hiding space.”

Stiles doesn’t scream. Okay, maybe one quick squeak of shock, but it isn’t a _scream_. He blinks into the darkness, staring at the person coming out of the shadows with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?” He winces at the sound of his own voice, and immediately lowers it to a whisper. “No. Seriously. What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

Derek shrugs one shoulder (one of those very nice shoulders, and isn’t this a bad time to be thinking about that?). “Visiting.”

And somehow, Stiles is absolutely, positively sure that isn’t the real answer. Of course, he’s also fairly certain that he isn’t going to get the actual answer out of Derek, so he’ll just have to deal with it. “Right.”

“It isn’t going to smell you in here,” Derek continues, looking at the piles against the wall. “It’s a good mask for your scent. On the other hand, that perfume is recognizable, so the minute you step out of here it’s going to be easy to find you again.”

“Oh, thanks for the good and bad news.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Got a solution? Mind telling me what that _thing_ is anyway?”

“You don’t need to know what it is, just that it wants to crunch your bones.” Derek steps closer to Stiles. “We need to mask your scent.”

Stiles may not be a werewolf, but this close he can smell a musky cologne, and the rich scent of leather, and something else that he’s always associated with Derek but can’t quite identify. He figures that he’s going to die anyway, so might as well go out with a bang. Best way to mask his scent is to take on someone else’s, right? It’d definitely be better than rolling around in garbage, which is what he suspects Derek intends to do with him.

He reaches out, gripping Derek’s collar, and yanks him forward those last few inches, pushing himself into a kiss. Stiles tastes coffee and smoke—like a wildfire, not cigarettes, which was good because _ew_ , cigarettes are such a turn-off. He keeps his tongue to himself, not wanting to get it bitten off, until he feels Derek’s mouth ease beneath his. Lips part, and Stiles can’t help but try to push for a little more, tongue slipping between those lips to taste him more.

A growl, and Derek pulls back, rubbing his cheek roughly against Stiles’s.

“Ow! Scruff burn!”

Derek growls again, silencing Stiles, pushing words from his mind. Not all words, no, that would be impossible. Stiles is left with incoherent rambles as Derek’s mouth moves from his lips to his throat, nipping sharply, cheek rubbing, leaving redness in its wake. All Stiles can smell now is that woodsy smoke, that musk, and it seems to be all over him. He’s pressed up against a wall and can feel Derek surrounding him somehow, kissing him until he can’t breathe.

When Derek pulls back, he runs his fingers through the curls of the wig Stiles has on (red curls and lots of them—they match the dress!). “You look nice tonight,” he says gruffly.

Stiles blinks. “That’s so entirely off-topic that I don’t even—no, thank you. I’m shockingly pleased to know that you like to see me in drag. I think. Except at this moment I don’t look _nice_ anymore, and there’s still a slavering beast who wants to eat me.”

The image that gives is swift and like a kick to the gut—Derek as the slavering beast, growling and on his knees, devouring Stiles’s cock. Okay, so, maybe being eaten by a beast isn’t _entirely_ bad. “I’d like to avoid the one that wants to crunch my bones,” Stiles clarifies. His voice is hoarse, and he flushes when Derek grins. “Mask my scent some more,” he demands.

His phone whistles—the distinctive sound of communications beginning from Star Trek. He could answer it, but Derek’s mouth is on his throat again and really, text message versus hot dude? Hot dude wins every damned time.

“Scott’s not coming to get you.” Derek’s tongue strokes along Stiles’s collarbone, and oh yes, the princess neckline was definitely the right choice. Not every guy could pull it off, but it looks surprisingly good on Stiles’s frame and if he hadn’t gone with it, Derek probably wouldn’t be able to lick him quite like this. And Stiles likes the licking. A lot.

But. Best friend. “Why?” Isn’t there something else Stiles is supposed to be doing right now? Something that doesn’t involve the feeling of concrete against his back and wondering where he lost his shoes?

“Because I told him I’d take care of you.” Derek pulls back, looking down at him. “Your scent is masked now.”

“So. What? We just walk out of here?” Because that seems like one of the stupidest plans Stiles has ever heard (and he’s heard a few, Scott’s his best friend after all, although he shouldn’t really knock him since sometimes Scott had the right ideas about things). 

“We just walk out of here.” Derek slings an arm around Stiles’s shoulder, yanking him in tight so that Stiles has to put his arm around Derek’s waist if he doesn’t want to be completely off-balance.

Now that Stiles is moving again, his feet _hurt_. He hadn’t thought about it before, but the pavement has rubbed away most of the stockings he started out the night wearing, and scrapes away at his skin. It’s not like Stiles doesn’t spend a halfway decent amount of time barefoot in the spring, but it’s still cold and this is a public space.

Between that and the smoky scent of Derek close to him, Stiles (almost) forgets about the beast.

Except.

“Wait.” He keeps walking, stumbling along in Derek’s wake. “Why does it want to crunch _my_ bones? Why doesn’t it care about _your_ bones? Or for that matter, any of the other tasty humans all around us? Why’s it so fascinated by _me_?”

Silence from Derek is never a good sign, and this is one of those heavy quiet moments where Stiles can almost hear the werewolf thinking. 

“Spit it out, sourwolf. There has to be a reason it’s desperate for a taste of Stilinski and I’m kind of thinking it isn’t anything good.”

“That depends on how you look at it.” Derek’s voice is low and he pauses, taking a moment to rub his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck again, sending a flood of warmth south in Stiles’s body. It’s going to be hard to walk like this, and really, do they have to keep moving? Oh right, crunching bones.

“Don’t we have somewhere to be?” Stiles says. “Is my dorm safe? Wait, is Scott safe?”

“Scott’s safe.” Derek nips at the pulse point and Stiles whimpers, wishing this were something more than _masking scent_ because oh my God, does it feel good. It takes him a moment to realize Derek’s still talking. “The Camaro’s around the corner. We’re going to my hotel room.”

“You have a hotel room? How long have you been here?” Stiles rocks back slightly when Derek releases him, breath shuddering in his throat. “Did you bring the weirdness here? Because seriously, it’s been nice being in a supernatural free zone for a while. Well, except for Scott. But Scott’s weirdness is normal these days, and pretty manageable as long as it’s not the full moon.”

“I didn’t bring it, I followed it.” Derek’s tone is hiding something, Stiles is sure of it, but they don’t have time to discuss it. A low growl somewhere in the distance sends Stiles closer to Derek, burrowing into his heat and hiding in his scent.

The growl turns to a snarl and a scrabbling of claws. Stiles still has no desire to _see_ this beast, so when Derek tells him to _run_ , Stiles runs.

The Camaro comes into view, a blot of thick, dark black beneath the streetlights. Derek yanks the driver’s side door open and Stiles climbs in and across to fall into the passenger seat. He catches a glimpse of the _thing_ coming out of the shadows. It’s taller than he thought, and the teeth are long, dripping with something Stiles bets is poisonous. Perfect to crunch his bones with. Big eyes, big mouth, big teeth. All these werewolves around him, and _now_ is the first time he’s ever really felt like Little Red Riding Hood.

Derek starts the car and it comes to life as he guns it. The Camaro roars like a beast as they pull out, swerving roughly into the road.

Stiles slumps down in the seat, head tilted back. He yanks the wig off, dropping it to one side so he can scrub his hands through his own short wavy strands. They’re probably half flat and half standing up like he’s been sleeping, and honestly, he doesn’t care. His dress is a mess, his pink panties are showing because he’s managed to slit the skirt even more, and if he glances down he can see a bit of his bra showing as well.

“At least if that thing catches us, it’s got a hard not-so-candy shell to get through to get at us,” he says quietly. “So. Thanks, Derek. You can probably just drop me back off at my dorm now.”

Derek shakes his head. “Were you listening, Stiles? That thing is looking for you. _You_ in particular. Not me, not Scott, not any other potentially delectable human…”

Stiles snorts at Derek’s word choice. “You have been spending way too much time with me these last few years.”

“You rub off on a guy.” Derek’s fingers twist on the steering wheel, a slow breath drawing in and out.

“So why does it want me?” Stiles doesn’t expect an answer since he didn’t get one the first time he asked, and he doesn’t get one now. Instead, Derek drives silently and doesn’t argue when Stiles fiddles with the car stereo.

They pull into the parking lot of a place that isn’t so much a hotel as a cheesy, low cost motel. Stiles wrinkles his nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says.

“The beds are clean.” Derek parks the car and climbs out, nose lifted as he inhales. Stiles doesn’t move, frozen in place. “It’s close,” Derek says, “and it’s coming, but it’s not here yet. We’ve got time. C’mon, we need to get inside.”

There are so many things Stiles wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He slips from the car, leaving the wig behind, and follows Derek to a room on the lower level. After they both are inside, Derek locks the door and wedges a chair under the handle. The windows are thoroughly taped with duct tape already, creating a solid web of silver against the glass.

“So. You’ve been busy.” Stiles touches one of the windows, frowning slightly at the way it makes his fingers tingle. “And not just in a wolfish way.”

“I had help,” Derek admits. “I needed someone to make this room safe, and you weren’t available at the time.”

Not that Stiles’s skills are particularly great. He still has a ton to learn, and he’s set all that magic aside while he focuses on his education. He’d thought he could walk away and forget it for now, just be normal. He was wrong.

The room is clean, he’ll give it that. Dark, dingy with only one small table lamp to light it, but at least it’s clean. There’s a bed, a bureau, and a television that looks like it might have been new when his dad was born. Stiles sits on the bed, since it’s the only place, and his feet are burning. “So, what now?”

Derek turns to face him, and Stiles can’t read his expression. Vulnerable for a moment, and uncertain, before it walls off behind a familiar scowl. Nostrils flare as Derek scents the air, and Stiles tries to slow his heart rate. He’s nervous now, because this is different. Things don’t come after _Stiles_. He’s not the target. He’s just the invisible, all-too-breakable, human sidekick. “This doesn’t make sense,” he says quietly.

“It makes sense,” Derek replies. “If you know the whole story.”

“Fill me in?” Stiles turns away, focusing on his feet instead, trying to rub the dirt from them. He hisses at the pain of gravel in open scrapes. “This is gonna smart tomorrow.” And he’s not sure they’ll fit in heels any time soon. Damn it.

Something warm touches his foot and he realizes that Derek is on his knees in front of him, a wet cloth in his hand an ice bucket by his knee. “You should’ve said something,” he murmurs, slowly wiping the grit from the injuries.

Stiles never really thought about feet as an erogenous zone, but right now, every swipe against that torn skin is like a shot right to his groin. Or maybe it’s the way Derek looks so intent about it all, all his attention focused on the condition of Stiles’s feet. “I was distracted,” Stiles says. “We were running from the beast, remember?” Not to mention that Derek kept snuffling at Stiles’s throat which was a really big distraction. “Now, though? Now it hurts.”

“We’ll have to get antiseptic later, when it’s safe.” Derek dips the washcloth back in the bucket, and dirt swirls into the water. It’s warm again as it wipes away more from the sole of Stiles’s foot, the touch far more gentle than he ever gave Derek credit for.

“Why are you taking care of me?” Maybe that’s not the best question, because Derek’s look is startled and somehow naked, baring an emotion that Stiles can’t understand. He feels heat rise to his cheeks. “Never mind. Just… thanks. We’ll stick with that. Thanks.”

Derek ducks his head. “I’m taking care of you because you need to be taken care of.” His voice is low, rough. “It’s part of the story, Stiles. Just go with it.”

“Are you ever going to tell me the rest of it?” Stiles shifts, because sitting is getting uncomfortable. He’s pretty sure Derek has absolutely no idea the effect he has on him, and Stiles doesn’t really want to let him know. The last thing he needs is a werewolf that’s pissed off about homosexual fantasies.

“Werewolf blood isn’t pure,” Derek says. His fingers never stop moving, never stop washing Stiles’s skin. Stiles wiggles the toes of his other foot, and Derek lifts that one, paying the same meticulous attention to the injuries there. “There are bitten wolves, of course, and they intermingle with the blood wolves. But we also have humans in our families. Humans that have their own supernatural attachment. Some are witches. Some are wolves so far back in their bloodlines that it doesn’t manifest anymore. The best are both.”

“Nice story, but what does it have to do with that beast?” Stiles looks at the window. He cocks his head, listening, but there’s nothing outside. Besides, Derek would hear it long before Stiles does. And he trusts Derek to take care of him. The feet thing might be a surprise, but Derek’s always been there for the saving thing, just like Stiles has saved him in the past. It’s been back and forth so much between them that Stiles couldn’t say who’s saved the other more.

“Shut up, Stiles, and let me finish.” Derek drops the washcloth back into the muddy water and sits back on his heels, crouched there on the floor and looking up. “The thing with wolves is, some of us are breeders.”

Stiles’s eyes widen. “Breeders? Derek, are you fucking telling me you can get _pregnant_?”

An almost smile quirks Derek’s lips. “No. I’m telling you that _you_ can.”

Stiles blinks. “Oh my God.” The words make no sense in his mind; he can’t even process them. He puts his feet down, ignoring the sudden sharp pain when he stands. “I need the bathroom.”

He doesn’t, not really, but it is the only place inside this safe room that he can get away and put a door between him and Derek. He needs time to himself to think, to process what’s been said.

A shower. Yes. Water will help him think. And oh thank God, this crappy motel has decent water pressure. He sticks his hand under the hot stream and it feels like burning needles. Perfect.

Stiles drops the ruined dress to one side, following it up with the bra, falsies, and panties. He has nothing else to wear after this, so he kicks them out of the possible path of any water, not wanting them to be any more ruined than they already are.

He steps under the water and stands there for a long moment, letting it sluice down over his head. There is something calming about the way it beats against his scalp. Stiles grabs the cheap motel room shampoo and upends it over his hair, scrubbing it in thoroughly. He wants to get rid of the scent of garbage. He wants to get rid of the scent of _everything_ on his skin, everything except soap and himself. Fingernails dig against his scalp and he groans softly when he rinses it out, hair falling damply against the back of his neck. It’s longer than it looks, the waves curling it up, but when it’s wet it brushes halfway down his neck.

The soap is one of those bars of Ivory that makes Stiles think of childhood. It lathers up though as he rubs it over his body, washing away the grime of the night. His hand dips down and finds his cock still half hard, the soapy water slick over his skin.

It can’t hurt, can it? Just one quick pull, a few jerks and he can get off, and maybe then everything can go back to normal. Derek’s just overwhelmed by the way Stiles smells, he’s sure of it. That’s why his scent has to be masked. If he’s not aroused, if he’s not thinking about sex, none of this will be happening.

He strokes slowly, bringing his cock to full erection.

There’s a low growl from the other side of the door.

Stiles stops, one hand on his balls, the other wrapped around his dick. He can’t breathe. “Derek?” he calls out.

“Don’t do that,” Derek says, voice tight. “I can smell you from here, Stiles, and if I can smell you, so can the beast.”

The beast can smell him jerking off. From a distance.

“What the _fuck_ is going on, Derek?”

“Let me in, Stiles.”

It can’t hurt anything, can it? Stiles can stay under the shower, and Derek can be on the other side of the curtain, and everything will be fine. Stiles lets his hands fall to his sides, breathing slowly as he tries to forget about sex and about Derek and about slavering beasts… okay, well, that one helps the erection go down at least. “Door’s not locked,” he finally says. “Come on in.”

He hears the door open, the sound of Derek sitting on top of the closed toilet seat. Then silence.

“I’m not getting out of this shower until you explain,” Stiles says.

“Someone in your past was a werewolf,” Derek says. Stiles can see his silhouette, head bowed slightly, elbows on his knees as he looks at a point on the floor. “From my best guess, more than five generations back. Any closer than that and you’d probably have manifested long before now. Your mom—she’s the one that gave you the magic. And it might be that she’s the one who gave you the wolf, too.”

“Why do I get a feeling I don’t want to know your reasoning for that?” Stiles asks quietly.

“Because you’re right.” Derek’s flat voice doesn’t invite more than that. “The important thing is, your blood’s manifesting _now_ , and you’re a breeder, which means every Alpha anywhere near enough to scent you can tell you’re around. The more aroused you are, the stronger the scent.”

Stiles has so many questions. Why does the beast want to kill him? Is it an Alpha? Is it doing an Alpha’s bidding? But most importantly… “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I didn’t know.” Derek lifts his head, and Stiles can imagine those eyes staring at him through the semi-opaque shower curtain. “At first, I didn’t even realize it was you. Then you came home for Christmas and it was like something exploded in my brain when I saw you with Scott.”

Scott. “Wait. Scott’s not an Alpha, not exactly…” It’s a funny thing, the way Scott is, and Stiles has never really figured out how he fits into werewolf hierarchy. “But why doesn’t he want to jump my bones? Or crunch them?”

Derek shakes his head. “Look, just shut up, let me try to get this out.” Derek pushes his hands into his hair, making it stand up on end. “Breeders are rare. Yes, there are women, and yes, they have babies, but it’s different. Breeders are… they’re special. Gender doesn’t matter. And they are bonded to an Alpha. It guarantees the continuity of the pack, but even more, it strengthens the Alpha. These breeders are mostly human, and they anchor the Alpha’s humanity. They bring something back to the pack, something that packs lose over the years of breeding only with wolves. And they definitely breed more wolves. Sometimes humans interbreed and the kids are just human. They move away from the pack… just forget everything about it. Their children, generations on, they can be just like you.”

Stiles tilts his head back, letting the words wash over him along with the water. Lukewarm now, he’s going to have to give up soon, step out. But he’s not ready for that. “Okay. So. I’m some special sort of human who can breed with a werewolf and make more werewolves.”

“Yes. But more importantly, you make me human.”

“What?” Stiles forgets the water and yanks the shower curtain side. He stands there, dripping. Staring. “Go back and say that one again, Derek, because I’m not sure I’m following.” Or he is following, but really, is this about baby making or what?

“There’s a bond between every breeder and an Alpha,” Derek says slowly, his gaze locked on Stiles. “You’re my breeder. That thing out there wants to kill you because it’s from a pack that’s so far gone that it’s lost its humanity. They’ve been threatening us since you and Scott left for college, and they’ve decided that the way to destroy us is to go after my anchor. You.”

“Huh.” Stiles reaches out blindly, fingers flailing against the wall. Derek stands and puts a towel in reach, and Stiles wraps it around his waist, stepping out onto the floor where he drips water in a slowly gathering puddle. “This is… a lot to take in. How do you feel about it all?”

Because Stiles has no idea what he thinks, just that it’s huge. Enormous. Bigger than that, possibly.

Derek shrugs. “It just is.”

And that’s a lie. Stiles can tell by the way he stands, and by the way his gaze shifts to look at the wall instead of Stiles. “No, it’s not,” Stiles says. “It’s about family, all that family that you don’t have, except for Peter. And it’s about how you care about that pack like it _is_ family. And now I’m… I’m your chance to have more family. So tell me how you feel about that already.”

Derek shrugs again, his expression like a lost pup when he glances at Stiles. “I’m not going to force you into anything, Stiles. But I’m going to make sure you stay alive.” A small smile. “And not just because I’m pretty sure you dying would kill me too. Which is what they’re aiming for.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles steps closer to Derek. “Are you trying to tell me that you think you’d need to _force_ me to be with you? Have you _looked_ at you? I’d love to get my hands on you. Or let you get your hands on me. Some of my favorite fantasies might have included something like exactly that.”

“You liked Lydia.” Derek looks comically confused, brows furrowed, mouth twisted.

“I was wearing a dress tonight, Derek. While there are straight men who do drag, I can tell you now that I’m not one of them.” Stiles waves one hand from his head to his toe. “Turns out I’m about 75% gay and 25% straight, near as I can figure. So please, if you want to jump my bones, go ahead. Especially if you might be able to make that thing stop chasing me.”

“The bond protects you. If the bond is finalized, you’re mine.” Derek’s voice drops low, intense. 

He strips off his shirt and Stiles can’t look away from those abs. Incredible, perfect, fit abs that have featured in some wonderful fantasies and are now right in front of him, potentially touchable. “So what you’re saying,” Stiles says slowly, “is if we fuck, I’m safe. And I risk getting pregnant.”

Derek moves in close, pushing Stiles back against the wall. Their bodies fit tight together, Derek’s face buried against his throat, teeth biting sharply. “Yes,” he growls. “Exactly that. Is that what you want?”

Pregnant? Stiles can’t even imagine the concept. He’s a _guy_. But it seems so impossible, so remote that he’s not entirely sure he can take it seriously. Still, the improbable keeps _happening_ so he’s not sure he can completely ignore it, either.

Sex with Derek.

If he does this, Derek Hale is going to have sex with him and then every wank fantasy is going to come true. Quite possibly more than once.

“Yeah.” The word comes out as a huff of breath. “Yeah, that’s what I want.”

Stiles isn’t prepared for the growl, for the way Derek lifts him, pushing him into the wall until Stiles has to wrap his legs around Derek’s waist to hold himself up. Derek’s hands fall to his ass and part his cheeks, sliding between them. Stiles isn’t a virgin (once counts, right?) but he doesn’t remember it ever feeling quite like this, slick and warm as Derek rings his hole with one fingertip. He pushes back and Derek pushes in, just a little; Stiles feels the stretch and the burn as his body opens to accept it.

“Oh God.” His head drops, forehead against Derek’s shoulder, body bowed because he just wants more. He’s already hard as a rock just from this, and no one is even touching his dick. Just that finger, sliding deeper in, then another joining it and how the _hell_ does it fell that good? Where did the lube come from? Oh fuck, just stop _thinking_ already and feel. “Derek. Fuck. Bed.” It’s the best he can do, and he hopes he gets his point across.

He slides down, landing on shaky feet, Derek steadying him before claiming a kiss. There is nothing easy about this one, nothing gentle. Stiles can feel the underlying growl, can taste the hunger. When he is released, he is reeling, wobbling back and forth slightly.

“Bed,” Derek says, and Stiles moves, sliding across the wet floor of the bathroom and out into the dimly lit hotel room, his towel lost somewhere along the way.

Stiles climbs on the bed and falls onto his back, watching Derek strip with every step. Jeans, socks, boxers… all gone, baring a gorgeous body that Stiles is just starting to realize might be _his_. All his. A mate. Oh fucking God, this is just too much and too complicated, and too _fast_ … then Derek’s mouth is on his dick and everything else is forgotten. Stiles shouts, hips shifting as he presses up, wanting more of that, and Derek obliges by swallowing him down.

It’s going to be over too quickly, as intense as it is. That slick rub against his asshole is back, pushing in with the thickness of three fingers, pressing him wide. It’s not supposed to be this sensitive, this _good_. Stiles remembers pain from his first time, but _this_ … this is amazing. So fucking good that he just wants more of it, and he’s lost in a haze of “Oh fuck yes, Derek, don’t stop, oh _God_ , I’m going to come please don’t stop that it’s so fucking good.” And then it’s over, just like that, as Stiles’s body bows and he loses control, shooting his load into Derek’s mouth.

“That was…” Stiles tries to find words, but there aren’t any, just the feel of Derek’s body over him, a mouth covering his. “It wasn’t like that before,” he finally manages.

“I don’t want to hear about before,” Derek growls, sharpening his words with a tight nip to Stiles’s throat. “This is different. You’re a breeder. Your body recognizes your mate and makes you ready for me.”

Oh. Ah. That makes… well, it doesn’t make sense necessarily, but in this world of the supernatural, it completely does. It’s something to think about later. Research later.

Not now, not when he can feel Derek pressing up against his ass and all Stiles wants is to be fucked. It’s a desperate, all-consuming need. “Please.” The sound is a soft whimper as he lifts his hips, spreading his legs wide, pulling his knees close to his body. Exposing himself for his Alpha.

Derek rubs against him, tilting his body before slipping partway inside. He shudders, body shaking as he holds himself carefully.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, because this is torture. “Just fuck me already, Derek. I need it.”

Derek’s eyes close and he pushes in, sliding easily until he is seated balls deep, filling Stiles. But it’s still not enough, and Stiles twists his hips, begging Derek silently to move, hard, satisfying them both.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” There’s something in Derek’s voice, almost like pain. “Just… I don’t know if I can stop, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

Derek’s laugh is strangled. “Stiles, you have no fucking idea what you’ve gotten into.”

Stiles doesn’t really care, because Derek is fucking him finally, snapping his hips sharply and driving deep inside of him. He’s hard again, swollen and thick, his cock pressed between them as Derek stretches out, his mouth all over Stiles’s throat. Biting. Nipping. Sucking. There will be bruises there and Stiles doesn’t care. No, he does care. He wants them. He wants to smell like Derek and be marked by Derek.

Stiles is still slick, and Derek slides easily in his ass. With every stroke it seems like he’s thicker, and Derek grunts, groaning. The movements slow, aching and deep; Stiles clenches around him tightly until Derek growls and bites his throat to make him relax. But it doesn’t change anything. Derek’s thrusts are shallow now, frantic, somehow stretching Stiles past belief, until he can’t think of anything else but the prick inside of him. It touches him everywhere, a constant haze of incredible pleasure.

Derek’s growl grows, hips snapping, pushing something even _thicker_ into Stiles until there is nowhere else to go. Derek cries out, stiffening as he spills inside of him; Stiles feels warmth spreading into him.

Derek slowly edges one knee beneath Stiles’s ass, then his other. He manages to sit up, looking down at Stiles, but they are still linked. Derek’s fingers ghost over Stiles’s dick. “You okay?”

Stiles blinks. “Fine. _Full_. Why?” Because Derek isn’t moving and he isn’t slipping out. It doesn’t even feel like he’s going soft.

Derek strokes Stiles’s cock, rolling from root to tip, using the lubrication left behind from his earlier orgasm. “Because we’re tied,” he says quietly, his gaze remaining on Stiles. “Locked together until my knot goes down enough to slip out of you. Does it hurt?”

There is no way for Stiles to process this new piece of information. “Is this going to happen every time we have sex?” His hips lift, trying to get more of that touch; it moves the knot within him, and oh _God_ , there are sparks behind his eyes. “Forget that question. I don’t care. It feels good. Really _really_ very much fucking awesome, actually. Keep doing that. Just like that.”

There is a flash of red in Derek’s eyes, dark and hungry to match the low growl as Derek’s hand twists and strokes. Stiles lets go of everything else and gives himself up to that touch, whimpering when Derek slows, fucking himself against that thick knot of flesh that fills him so tightly. When he finally crests, the orgasm rushes through him, shuddering deeply even though he doesn’t have much to spurt.

He feels empty when Derek finally shifts and withdraws. But somehow they rearrange themselves beneath the covers, sticky and spent and tangled up in each other.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stiles says, and he’s not sure if he’s talking about the mate thing again, or that knot and tie thing, or even how fucking good it was going to be when his body was all weird for Derek.

“I thought you’d be scared.”

Stiles glares at him, pushing lightly against Derek’s chest. “Since when am I _ever_ scared of you? You’ve thrown me into walls, I’ve saved you from drowning—because who knew wolves sink like bricks?—we’ve been to hell and back together and I have _never_ been afraid of you. For you, yes. But never afraid _of_ you. Even with the magically growing penis and potential for pregnancy, this is not going to change.”

Derek grabs his hand before it can shove again, fingers curling tightly around it and pressing it between their chests. “Good to know.”

It’s nice to lie like this, feeling the beat of Derek’s heart against his own. Perfect, really. It’s enough to make Stiles (almost) forget about the lost heels, the torn dress, and ruined drag night, and oh yes, the beast that wants to crunch his bones. “So. Hey. Am I safe from the beast now?”

“Mm.” Derek makes a noncommittal noise. “You smell like me now. Marked.”

“But that mark could probably be stronger, right?” Stiles muses. “If we happened to do it again.”

“Stiles, I need time to recover.”

“So do I.” Although Stiles thinks that maybe he doesn’t need all _that_ much time. Still, some would be good. “We can do it again before we leave the room, though. I’m pretty sure Scott won’t miss me.”

“Scott knows you’re not coming home because I told him.”

“That sure of me?” For some reason, that idea warms Stiles. Even though Derek thought he’d be scared, he’d been sure enough of him to know they’d go through with this.

“Mm-hm.”

Stiles breathes in slow breaths, letting them out softly. Smoke, musk… it’s all part of Derek and himself. “So just how long do you think it’ll take you to recover?”

“Stiles!”

He looks up to see Derek staring at him. Laughing. Fondly. Lips meet in a long kiss, then Derek lays his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. “Shut up, Stiles,” he murmurs. “Sleep.”

Stiles knows he’s safe now. Knows he’s _home_. So yeah, he does just that.


End file.
